


In the Kitchen

by brynnmck



Category: due South
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-08-31
Updated: 2007-08-31
Packaged: 2017-12-14 17:53:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/839693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brynnmck/pseuds/brynnmck
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"The torch of love is lit in the kitchen." Three kitchen-related ficlets.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Spaghetti (Fraser/Vecchio)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sdwolfpup](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sdwolfpup/gifts).



> Written for SD Wolfpup's birthday. Huge sparkly thanks to the wonderful china_shop for a great deal of help with this fic, from encouragement to hand-holding to necessary surgery to a lightning-fast and insightful beta. All remaining mistakes are mine. And thanks to aerye for happily receiving/participating in the F/V squee that I spammed her with while writing the first section, since in this particular case I couldn't share it with SDW. :) I adore all three of you!

**Spaghetti (Fraser/Vecchio)**

 

"Almost done, Benny," Ray said, his face flushed from the steaming pot in front of him, one hand wielding a wooden spoon with practiced ease.

Fraser smiled from his place at the table. "It smells wonderful."

"'Course it does, it's Ma's recipe—she'd slap us both if you said otherwise." Ray tasted the sauce, frowned, and sprinkled in a little more oregano from the small jar that had found its way into Fraser's cupboard a few months ago. Despite the late hour and the apparently insufficient oregano, he looked happy, humming unrecognizable snatches of tunes under his breath while he worked, his hips moving in time. Fraser had always viewed cooking with a utilitarian eye; he respected the art of it, but he'd never had a gift for it, himself. Which was why, when they'd returned to Fraser's apartment at three in the morning, exhausted and hungry after their third fruitless night in a row of staking out the O'Malleys' headquarters, Ray had flatly refused Fraser's offer to cook them both something before Ray went home.

"Are you kidding?" Ray had snorted, "I see what you eat, and," he'd continued, as Fraser had opened his mouth to offer an alternative, "if I gotta choke down one more pizza made by those cretins who work the swing shift down at Tino's, I'm gonna cry. Open up those cans of tomatoes I bought last week, dice me some onions, and then sit down and get outta my way. I'm gonna show you how it's done."

Fraser had considered resisting, but he was accustomed enough to Ray's unique style of communication to recognize a gift when it was offered—despite the unconventional packaging—so he'd simply said, "All right," and reached for the can opener.

It was nearly four in the morning now, the smell of spices strong in the air; everything seemed both bright and blurry. Diefenbaker had long since abandoned them, sprawled out on the far side of the bed. He normally showed great interest in Ray's cooking, but after having spent most of the evening scavenging God only knew what from the alleys around their vantage point, his belly was full enough that for once, sleep had won out over hunger.

Having had the opportunity for neither sleep nor scavenging, Fraser leaned back and permitted his mind to drift while he waited, only to realize abruptly that he was staring at Ray's hips, oddly hypnotized by the steady motion of them, the way Ray's tailored slacks still draped smoothly over them in defiance of long hours in the car. He shook his head a little and blinked hard. He'd been vigilant for months, through a hundred meals and small shared victories and electric snaps of connection. Tiredness was no excuse to undo everything he'd tried so hard to preserve. Even if he was starting to think that if he had to spend one more night in a dark car with Ray and _not_ touch him, he was going to go mad no matter which direction the wind was blowing.

He reined in his wandering thoughts. "Are you sure I can't help?"

"Nope," Ray answered easily, oblivious. He used his spoon to pull a piece of spaghetti out of the pot on the back of the stove, waved it through the air a few times to cool it, then let it coil into his mouth. "You can't do your Mountie mind tricks on spaghetti sauce," he explained, the words muffled by pasta. "Spaghetti sauce can't be fooled. It knows an inexperienced hand when it feels one."

Fraser nodded solemnly. "I see. Well, I certainly have no wish to offend the spaghetti sauce."

Ray turned away from the stove long enough for a wink and a grin. "You're a smart man, Benny."

 _I'm trying to be_ , Fraser thought a little desperately as he shifted in his chair.

Ray tasted the sauce again. "C'mere, try this," he offered, holding out the wooden spoon with one hand cupped under it.

Fraser spared one mildly resentful thought for a world that seemed determined to tempt him at every turn before he gritted his teeth and rose, crossing the small kitchen so he was close enough to fit his mouth around Ray's spoon. The sauce was velvet hot on his tongue, garlic and tomato and just enough red pepper to sting and bring the blood rushing. He swallowed hard. His mouth was watering.

"That's delicious," he told Ray, forcing himself to remain focused on the plain wood of the spoon in front of him. Beneath the spices, he could smell Ray, fresh sweat from the stove and the faint remnants of his cologne, eighteen hours old but still lingering. Fraser held his breath, not trusting his control.

"You, ah…" Ray cleared his throat. "You like it?" His voice was warm and husky, and Fraser glanced up at him in surprise. All these months and Ray had never… he couldn't possibly…

Ray was watching him, green eyes clear and questioning and very, very close. Fraser swallowed again. At some point, his heart rate had accelerated; he could feel the pounding against his ribs.

"I like it very much," he managed, striving for the middle ground, something that could keep them balanced in case he was wrong, in case he was going to have to lock all this dizzying want away in the back of his mind again.

"Benny, I…" Ray hesitated, then, with a curve of his mouth, "Are we talking about the spaghetti sauce, here?"

Fraser concentrated very hard on breathing; the sudden onslaught of lust and love and relief and hope and terror was overwhelming. "No," he murmured. "No, Ray, I don't think we are," and then one or both of them leaned forward and they were kissing, deceptively easy after all this time, the spoon pressing against Fraser's chest and the sauce rich in their mouths.

When they broke the kiss, they were both smiling.

"Y'know," Ray said, "for a guy who can track a pigeon across the city on a cloudy day, you sure take a while to get the message."

Fraser looked down at the floor, cursing his fair complexion that had no hope of hiding his blush. "I will admit that my usual facility in reading signs occasionally fails me when it comes to…" He coughed a little. "Matters of the heart."

Ray smoothed a hand up Fraser's arm. "I know, Benny," he said, gentle now, only the slightest hint of affectionate teasing. "I know." Then he grinned. "Uh-oh," he said, nodding toward Fraser's chest, where the spoon had left a red smear. "Got sauce on your shirt. How many demerits is that?"

"I'll have to consult the manual," Fraser answered, chuckling, trailing off into a stifled groan as Ray leaned down and put his mouth to the stain, spreading soft, wet heat. Fraser reflexively clutched Ray's arms to keep upright, then pulled sideways, sending both of them stumbling until he had Ray pressed up against the refrigerator. Ray's eyes were wide and surprised, but smoldering underneath, and Fraser could feel the thick, hard line of Ray's erection against his thigh.

He reached out and flicked off the burners. "Fortunately," he said, watching Ray's slow smile bloom across his face, "once I do get the message, you'll find I'm able to act on its contents with great dedication and alacrity."

Ray shook his head. "'Alacrity,'" he repeated. "You got a gift for dirty talk, you know that?"

"And you," Fraser replied, teasing the graceful line of Ray's neck with his tongue, "have a gift for spaghetti sauce." The muscles shifted beneath his ministrations as Ray's head thumped back against the refrigerator.

"Told you," Ray murmured unsteadily, "the spaghetti sauce can't be fooled."


	2. Pancakes (Ray/Ray)

**2\. Pancakes (Ray/Ray)**

 

Laughing. That was the last clear thing Ray remembered, laughing with Kowalski over some stupid crack at Huey over the walkie-talkie and hoping their suspects showed up soon so he could get Kowalski back to his place and see what that laugh tasted like, and then it was all shouts and the echo of gunfire and an impact on his chest like a battering ram, knocking him off his feet. The world spun and went black, and when he opened his eyes, he was greeted with a throbbing pain in his chest and Kowalski kneeling pale and wild-eyed over him in the dirty street.

"Vecchio," Kowalski was saying, "Vecchio, you OK? Answer me, goddammit! Are you shot?"

Ray tried, his mouth working around the words, but he was still getting his breath back and no sound came out. The gunfire had stopped, which hopefully meant the good guys had emerged victorious. Kowalski had Ray's shirt open— _buttons are probably gone for good, dammit_ , Ray thought inanely—and both hands running frantic over Ray's arms, his neck, the Kevlar on his chest. Ray coughed.

"'S'OK, Kowalski," he wheezed when he could, waving a few fingers weakly. _Fuck,_ that hurt. "'S'OK. Not hurt."

"You sure?" Kowalski demanded, and he looked pissed, like if Ray gave the wrong answer Kowalski was gonna beat the crap out of him. Or try, anyway. They fought pretty even most of the time, though considering Ray'd just been— _"Vecchio!"_ Kowalski shouted, shaking him a little. "I said _are you sure_?"

Ray blinked up at him. Geez, the guy looked like crap. Dirt on his face and his badge all sideways. "I'm sure. Gonna have one hell of a bruise, but…" He trailed off, because Kowalski clearly wasn't listening anymore, one hand twisting tight in the fabric of Ray's ruined shirt, his head bowed so that all Ray could see was spiky hair, trembing.

"Hey," Ray said softly, sneaking one hand up to cover Kowalski's clenched one, "hey, hey—"

"Vecchio!" That was Huey, and running footsteps, and Ray let his hand drop quickly. "Officer down! Require immediate assistance!"

"I'm OK, Jack," Ray offered as soon as he got within wheezing range. He glanced at Kowalski, hoping for help, but Kowalski's head was still down. "I'm OK," he repeated, feeling a little like a wind-up toy—bash him in the chest and he says one of three phrases! He tried to sit up, but his chest muscles were having absolutely none of that.

"Just sit tight," Huey told him, his face hard with concern. "We're gonna get you checked out, OK?"

"Y'know, I've actually _been_ shot before—"

"Yeah," Huey interrupted, "so you know the SOP, so lie there and shut up until we get you checked out."

Ray dug deep and found a smirk somewhere. "Aww, Jack, I didn't know you cared."

"Was there a part of 'shut up' you didn't understand?" Huey shot back dryly, but his grin was relieved. Then, "Kowalski. You wanna do the honors?" He jerked his head to the side, where Ray figured the perps were waiting. Hopefully hurting twice as much as Ray was.

Kowalski's head snapped up, and his eyes were burning now, bright in his pale face. "Yeah. Yeah, I do," he said grimly. He levered himself to his feet, and Ray figured he was the only one who noticed Kowalski wasn't entirely steady. But he walked steady enough, out of Ray's line of sight. Ray heard the musical clink of handcuffs and the exact permissible number of pained grunts that your typical judge was willing to overlook, all sharp punctuation for Kowalski's voice reciting a profanity-enhanced version of the Miranda Warning. _So he does know it after all_ , Ray thought vaguely, then closed his eyes and waited for the paramedics.

 

* * * * *

By the time the annoyingly thorough paramedics were done with him—and Ray wasn't usually one to ignore attention, especially from pretty medical professionals, but he was tired and his chest hurt and he wanted to go home—Ray could barely keep his eyes open. Kowalski drove him them both back to Ray's apartment and helped him get out of his clothes, which worked out well because Kowalski was pretty much an expert at getting Ray out of his clothes, even when his mind was obviously elsewhere. And Ray might've been a little hurt by that—hey, he was naked, here, and he'd been wounded in the line of duty, and maybe the bruises on his chest brought out his eyes or something—but it wasn't like he was up for much anyway, so when Kowalski mumbled something about crashing on the couch, Ray just shrugged ( _ow_ ) and let his head drop onto the pillow and was asleep almost immediately.

He woke the next morning to the smell of sugar and vanilla.

 _Ma_ , he thought instantly, and his brain winced—it was too early for this, dammit, he'd said no earlier than eleven o'clock on Saturdays, and that was when he _hadn't_ taken a few bullets to the chest the day before—but his stomach growled much louder, so he was already halfway to sitting up when his abused chest muscles rebelled abruptly and he fell back, gasping. He lay there for a few seconds, cycling through most of the curse words he knew in both English and Italian before he eventually half-rolled, half slid his way out of bed and managed to get upright with a considerable assist from the night-table. Where the fuck was Kowalski, anyway? He didn't hear anything from the kitchen but the occasional tap of plastic on metal—none of the usual litany of extravagant compliments Kowalski usually laid on Ray's Ma. Ass-kisser.

Maybe it was just as well Kowalski'd gone home already, Ray thought, trying to tamp down a vague twinge of disappointment as he eased his way into a robe; there were only so many times your family could find your partner at your place in the morning and believe that it was strictly police work going on. Not that he thought he was really fooling any of them, but the pretense seemed important, at this stage, anyway.

He yawned and gingerly made his way down the short hallway to the kitchen. "Ma, I told you on the phone, I'm—" and then he stopped dead, mouth hanging open.

Kowalski was standing at the stove, his too-big jeans low on his hips and wearing one of Ray's old Cubs t-shirts—man, Ray must've been dead to the world to miss Kowalski sneaking into his bedroom, because Kowalski basically sucked at sneaking—with a dish-towel slung over his shoulder and a faintly steaming pan of pancakes in front of him.

"Hey," he said, and Ray knew that look, balanced precariously between hesitant and defensive.

"Morning," Ray offered, keeping his tone even. _Do not tease the animals._ The table was set: two plates, two forks, two glasses of orange juice waiting. Paper towels folded in half instead of the cloth napkins Ray usually used, but everything was neatly arranged, straight lines and right angles. Coffee burbling in the pot.

"How you feeling?" Kowalski asked.

Ray winced. "Hurts like a bitch."

"Yeah, I bet." Kowalski grimaced sympathetically, eyes skipping over Ray's chest where the robe was open; the bruises definitely clashed, Ray knew, angry purple and blue against the striped silk. "You hungry?"

"Yeah." Ray shook his head to try to clear it. This was like waking up in the Twilight Zone. Or maybe he really had been shot yesterday and this was heaven, in which case Kowalski had definitely gotten the short end of the stick, stuck making pancakes for all eternity. "Smells great. You need a hand with that?"

"Nah, I'm good." Kowalski shrugged, turning back to the pan. He slid the spatula under one of the pancakes, frowned at the underside of it, then flipped it with a quick flick of his wrist. It landed off-center and he pushed it into place with a finger, hissing when he touched the hot pan.

"Can I—" Ray started.

"I said I'm good, OK?" Kowalski snapped, and Ray held one hand up in front of him, palm out, and used the other one to brace himself as he sank slowly into the nearest chair.

"OK. I'll just be sitting here. Enjoying my juice." He reached for the glass.

Kowalski muttered, "Good," and sucked on his injured finger.

That was about how it went during breakfast, a halting back-and-forth between them, three steps friendly and one step _fuck you_. Which wasn't so different than usual, really, only quieter, and Kowalski kept looking at him when he thought Ray wasn't watching.

"You been holding out on me," Ray said finally, as he soaked up the last of the syrup on his plate with the final chunk of pancake. Pretending this was all perfectly normal was starting to get a little ridiculous.

"Whaddaya mean?" Kowalski mumbled with his mouth full. He was on his second stack, like he hadn't eaten in weeks.

"Six months," Ray said, one eyebrow raised. "Six months I've known you, Kowalski, and I've spent a few mornings with you in that time, and I've never once seen you make breakfast. You can't even manage to make _coffee_ till you've already had three cups." Truth be told, he'd never seen Kowalski do much more than boil water for ramen, but then again, Stella'd loved breakfast in bed, and if he and Kowalski talked about Stella, Ray would've asked, but they didn't, not yet, so he just waited.

"Yeah, well." Kowalski lifted one shoulder and cocked his head, a faint sneer at the edges of his mouth. "I'm full of surprises."

Ray reached over and put his hand on Kowalski's forearm. "I'm trying to say thank you," he said. Gentle, but firm, so Kowalski knew he meant it.

Kowalski looked at him for a few seconds, then shrugged again and dropped his eyes to his plate. "They're just pancakes, Vecchio." But from what Ray could see of his mouth, he was smiling.

Ray grinned. "Hey, don't sell yourself short—you make a hell of a pancake, Kowalski. In fact, if it gets me this kind of service, I might be tempted to get shot more often."

Well, _that_ got a reaction. Kowalski jerked in his chair and pointed two fingers right at Ray's nose, some combination of accusation and threat. "That's not fucking funny, you asshole. You ever say that again, I swear to God I will shoot you myself."

 _Great plan, genius, that's real good thinking_ , Ray's brain suggested automatically, the stock response, but he managed to keep the words from falling out of his mouth and snagged Kowalski's fingers with his instead. "You OK?" he asked, holding up Kowalski's index finger, which was burned red at the end from his off-target pancake.

Kowalski blinked at him. "Why?" he snorted after a second. "Are you gonna kiss it better?"

"Maybe," Ray replied calmly. He leaned down and took Kowalski's fingertip in his mouth, swirling his tongue slow and careful around the pad, his eyes locked on Kowalski's. By the time he was done, Kowalski's finger was wet down to the second knuckle and they were both breathing faster.

"Asshole," Kowalski repeated, low and tortured this time. Ray winked.

"Don't worry, I'm a quick healer." For a couple of seconds, he thought about doing a little experimentation to find out how quick a healer he really was, but the thought of trying to explain to his doctor that he'd fucked himself up worse because he just hadn't been able to go twenty-four hours without having dirty sex with his partner kind of killed the buzz. He sighed. This _sucked_.

Kowalski just narrowed his eyes at him—probably going through the same thought process—and growled, "Yeah, well, you better be," before shoving back from the table to go put his plate in the sink.

Ray followed with his own plate, grabbing a dish towel along the way; he needed to use his muscles some, anyway, or he'd be so sore tomorrow he wouldn't be able to move. He caught up with Kowalski by the sink, turned him so they were facing each other, took Kowalski's face between his hands and kissed him as thoroughly as he could manage.

"I'm not going anywhere, Kowalski," he said when he was done. " _Capisce?_ "

Kowalski's jaw clenched briefly. Then he nodded, shook himself a little, a wicked grin spreading across his face. "Good," he said, turning back to the sink, "because next weekend, you're making _me_ breakfast."

"Hey!" Ray protested. Laughing hurt, but he went with it anyway. "I don't heal _that_ fast, Florence Nightingale."

"I like eggs benedict," Kowalski informed him as he reached for the first plate on the pile. "Oh, and you're drying."

"What do you think this is for?" Ray asked, holding up the dish towel. "This give you a clue, Detective Kowalski? Did you want a few minutes to think about it?"

"And waffles," Kowalski went on. "I like waffles, too. With strawberry syrup."

"I'll give you strawberry syrup," Ray muttered, and it didn't make any sense, but Kowalski chuckled anyway, and that was more than good enough for Ray.


	3. Cookies (F/K/V)

**Cookies (F/K/V)**

 

Ray settled back in one of the bar chairs at the kitchen counter with a contented sigh, enjoying the sight of his daughter's blonde head bent close to Fraser's dark one, the smell of spaghetti sauce from dinner mixed with sugar and vanilla from fresh-baked cookies, and the sound of someone else (namely, Vecchio) doing the dishes. _Yeah_ , he thought smugly, _a guy could do worse for Halloween festivities_ , even if he'd spent most of the previous day up to his ass in mud in an all-natural pumpkin patch instead of just buying one at the store like God intended.

Freaky Canadians.

Anyway, normally the dishes were Ray's job, but Vecchio had come out on the wrong end of their bet about what costume Angelique was going to want to wear, so not only did Ray not have to do the dishes, he also got to gloat about _Vecchio_ doing the dishes, which was even better. Of course, it had to be sort of undercover gloating, seeing as they didn't want to set a bad example for the kid—next year she'd be seven, maybe Ray could start teaching her gloating then—but that was cool. Vecchio got the message with a lot of eye-rolling and vague threats buried in polite offers, and Fraser just gave them both long-suffering looks and tried to pretend he didn't love every second of it.

Fraser and Angelique were at the table, which was littered with frosting tubes and sprinkles and half-empty bags of candy and wadded-up napkins. Dief was sprawled out underneath; a few years ago, he'd have had both paws up on the table and his nose in one of the frosting cans, but now he saved his energy for chasing bad guys and just waited for the sprinkles to wind up within tongue-range on the floor. Saved money on a broom, anyway.

"OK," Angelique said, putting a last flourish of frosting on the cookie in front of her, then setting the tube down on the sticky table. The filmy white wings attached to her leotard shook a little with the movement. "What's this one, Daddy?"

Fraser leaned over to inspect her work, his forehead wrinkled like he was calculating a perp's shoe size based on a snowflake or something. "Hmmm."

Angelique watched him, her blue eyes bright, feet kicking faster and faster under the table. "Daddy, what _is_ it?" she asked again when she couldn't wait anymore, which meant all of about five seconds.

"Well, it's clearly a polar bear," Fraser told her. He pointed to the bottom part of the cookie. "See the big paws?"

Ray didn't see any paws, he just saw blobs of frosting and dough, but Angelique nodded so hard her tiara almost fell off. "It _is_ a polar bear!" She picked up another tube of frosting. "I'm gonna give him a hat so his ears don't get cold in the snow."

Fraser smiled at her, and man, Ray _never_ got tired of seeing Fraser smile like that, proud and happy and sort of amazed, too, like he was expecting to wake up any second. "That's very thoughtful of you."

"Yep," Angelique agreed carelessly, her tongue caught between her teeth while she worked; polar bears wore blue hats, apparently.

"I don't see a polar bear," Vecchio confessed quietly in Ray's ear as his arms slid around Ray's shoulders from behind. He smelled like dish soap and aftershave.

"You got no imagination, Vecchio," Ray answered just as quietly, grinning.

"Oh, like you can see it."

Ray chuckled. "OK, yeah. The emu, I thought maybe, but yeah. The polar bear, I gotta admit—that, I do not get." He reached up and linked his fingers through Vecchio's. "Mmm, Palmolive soft."

"Shaddup," Vecchio growled, nudging Ray's ass with his knee. Ray grinned wider. "Coulda sworn she'd go dinosaur."

Ray shrugged and tapped the side of his head. "What can I say? I got an instinct."

"You got lucky, is what you got."

Actually, what Ray had got was his day to pick up Angelique from school when one of her friends had discovered she got all sweaty in her big plastic dinosaur head and convinced Angelique that they should both be fairy princesses instead, but Vecchio didn't need to know that. "OK, Madge, whatever helps you sleep at night. You pre-washed before you put stuff in the dishwasher, right?"

"Kowalski, I swear to God…" Vecchio murmured, hot and warning in the way that still made Ray's knees weak even after all this time, and Ray laughed and leaned back harder into his chest.

"OK." Angelique put the polar-bear-with-hat on the plate next to her, then held out frosting-covered hands. "Next please!"

"One more," Fraser told her, sliding another amoeba cookie her way, "then we have to go or you'll be late for your Aunt Maggie's party." Trick-or-treating wasn't much of an option in October, even quite a bit south of Tuktoyaktuk, but Maggie's parties were the hot ticket in town every year and nobody's house ended up egged, so Ray figured they all made out pretty good.

"'K," Angelique said happily, feet kicking again. Vecchio snorted.

"The boots are killing me."

"I like 'em." Ray smiled fondly at the way Angelique's purple tights got swallowed just under her knee by black rubber galoshes, which she had insisted on wearing instead of the sparkly shoes they'd bought her.

"Well, she's got your fashion sense, that's for sure," Vecchio sighed. "Bad enough you've got her watching hockey without making her an accomplice to your sartorial crimes against humanity, too."

Ray snickered, then—with a quick glance to make sure Angelique was still zeroed in on her cookie—craned his neck back so he could put his mouth close to Vecchio's ear. "Maybe I wear stuff you hate just so you'll wanna take it off me, you ever think about that?"

Vecchio laughed low, slid his cheek along Ray's. "You don't have to work so hard, Kowalski, so maybe you could do my retinas a favor—" and then they were kissing, slow and sweet.

After a few seconds: "Ewwwww," came Angelique's voice from across the room.

It was kind of hard to keep kissing when you were laughing, so after one last quick bite on Vecchio's lower lip, Ray turned a skeptical look on their daughter. "Ewww?" he repeated. "You're six, you're too young to be grossed out by that stuff yet." Behind her, Fraser was watching them, and from the gleam in his eye, Fraser was definitely not thinking _ewww_ , Fraser was thinking _maybe later after we put the kid to bed, I can watch Vecchio fuck you through the mattress_. Well, Fraser was probably thinking it with bigger words, but it all ended up in the same place.

"Six and a _half_ ," Angelique corrected him, and hand to God, there was not much in the world funnier than hearing Fraser's _actually, Ray, blah blah blah caribou_ tone coming out of the mouth of a tiny blonde kid with pigtails and her cheeks smeared with glitter.

Ray slid off his chair. "Oh, six and a _half_ , well, then, my mistake, I'll just—" and he dove in for the kill, fingers dancing over her tiny ribs, tickling her mercilessly while she shrieked with laughter.

"Daddy, Daddy, you're squashing my wings!" she protested between squeals; Vecchio swooped in to the rescue, swinging her up out of her chair and over his head until he finally settled her on his hip. "Thanks, Daddy," she told him breathlessly, still giggling, with a press of sticky lips to his cheek.

"Your wish is my command, Your Highness." Vecchio smiled at her, and the one-two punch of that smile and Fraser's smile was almost more than Ray could take. Fraser had one hand on the small of Vecchio's back and one on Angelique's galosh-covered foot, and his eyes when they met Ray's were bright and stunning, like the sun sparkling off miles of fresh snow. Ray swallowed hard. He'd hit the jackpot, here, they all had, and it was worth every shitty hand he'd ever been dealt.

"You hafta guess the last cookie," Angelique told Fraser, getting a raised eyebrow for her trouble. "Please," she added sweetly.

Fraser patted her foot, then cleared his throat and bent to examine her latest creation while Vecchio leaned in so he could rest the side of his leg against Fraser's shoulder. The kid had made the most of her last shot, Ray had to give her that; the cookie was piled high with at least five different colors of frosting, a thick crust of sprinkles, half a dozen chocolate chips, and a few pieces of licorice for good measure. It looked disgusting. Ray wanted to frame it.

"Well," Fraser said finally, while Angelique bounced with impatience. "This is very interesting."

Angelique bit her lip. "What, what?"

"It's just," and Fraser shrugged, making a _what-can-you-do_ kind of gesture at the cookie, "I've never seen anything quite like this before."

"You haven't?" Angelique asked. Her eyes were wide.

"Nope," Fraser answered. He looked at Vecchio, then at Ray, then back to their daughter. "Angel," he said solemnly, "I think you've created something completely new."

"I did?" Angelique bounced again in Vecchio's arms, harder this time, her voice spiraling up a couple of octaves on the last word.

Fraser nodded. "Yep." He leaned down and inspected the cookie one more time. "Yes, I'm quite certain of it. This is an entirely original animal."

Angelique looked at Vecchio. "I made something new!" she told him excitedly, in case maybe he'd been body-snatched by aliens for a few minutes and missed her big discovery.

Vecchio's grin was wide and warm. "I heard," he replied, giving her a kiss on the nose. "Nice goin', _bellezza_."

"Daddy!" It was Ray's turn now.

"Yeah, kiddo?"

"I made something new!"

"No way!" Ray moved over so he could sling an arm around Vecchio's shoulders. Angelique leaned into him, her head tipped back, her tiara digging into his shoulder and her wings poking into his chest. Ray smiled down at her. "What're you gonna call it?"

She straightened up and frowned at the mass of sugar for a few seconds, deep in thought. In the meantime, Fraser's hand found its way into Ray's and squeezed hard.

"Horace," Angelique announced finally, like she'd just discovered gravity, "I'm gonna call it _Horace_ ," and Ray buried his face in Vecchio's shoulder and laughed till he cried.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I totally stole Angelique from [](http://sdwolfpup.livejournal.com/profile)[**sdwolfpup**](http://sdwolfpup.livejournal.com/)'s adorable ficlet [here](http://sdwolfpup.livejournal.com/352189.html), because I am classy enough to steal my friends' stuff on their birthdays.


End file.
